


Bad Timing

by rubyofkukundu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Humor, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-26
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's election time and there's been a suicide at DoSAC. Malcolm calls in the police and the police call in Sherlock. Much swearing ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties with the minister because I couldn't bear to force character death on Nicola Murray. In this version she's been recently ousted due to a scandal and has been replaced by someone else.
> 
> ***
> 
> Written for the following prompt:
> 
> 1)Mycroft Holmes is the British government.  
> Malcolm Tucker is the man behind the British government.
> 
> 2) Sherlock already knows people are idiots. Then he somehow becomes involved with Dosac.
> 
> 3) Any The Thick Of It crossover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/816093.html>

Olly takes one look at his phone and swears.  
  
Glenn swivels his chair in Olly's direction. "Another dirty text-message get leaked again, Tiger?"  
  
If Olly were a less decent man, he'd rise to the challenge. Luckily, he's not. "No," he says. "It's Terri. She keeps sending me these fucking farmville requests on facebook. I knew I shouldn't have friended her."  
  
Glenn, like the dinosaur that he is, looks blank. And smug. "I don't know why you're on facebook anyway," he says. "You wouldn't catch me putting all my personal details online."  
  
"Yeah, well, we don't all live in the fucking dark ages," snaps Olly. "I mean, how does she even spend all this time on facebook anyway? She's supposed to be working!"  
  
"Like you're supposed to be working?"  
  
Olly sneers. "Oh, f..." But his witty retort is stopped in its tracks by the sound of a scream cutting through the air.  
  
***  
  
Robyn is hunched in a chair, crying. Terri, in her normal overbearing manner, is attempting to comfort her. Olly is just glad that there's someone else to do it; something about women crying sets his teeth on edge.  
  
"I can't believe he's finally done it," says Glenn, conspiratorially, "the bastard. Did he have to go and kill himself right in the middle of an election campaign? I mean, he's only been Secretary of State for two weeks! It's not that stressful is it?"  
  
"He never seemed that stressed," says Olly.  
  
"No," agrees Glenn. "He always did look a bit sad though. I thought it was just his face."  
  
"I think it's awful," declares Terri. "Why did he have to kill himself _like that_? Didn't he even think? They're going to have hell trying to get those blood stains out of that carpet."  
  
Unfortunately, that just makes Robyn sob even louder. Olly inhales deeply and tries to block out the noise.  
  
"Oh come on," says Terri, giving Robyn a little shake. "You didn't even like him much."  
  
Glenn sticks his hands in his pockets. "So, when do you think Malcolm's going to turn up?"  
  
"And I miss you too, Papa Smurf," says a voice right behind them. Olly nearly jumps out of his skin.  
  
"Jesus, Malcolm," gasps Glenn. "Do you have to do that?"  
  
"Sorry, old man," Malcolm gives him a wink. "I forget that I have to monitor everything I do to make sure I don't accidentally give you a heart attack."  
  
Olly laughs at the look of annoyance on Glenn's face, but Malcolm's already turned his back on both of them.  
  
"Alright, fuckers!" Malcolm addresses the open-plan office. "We are now on lock down! I don't want one word of what has happened here to leave this building until we officially send out a press release. In fact, I don't want _you_ to leave this building until we've sent out a press release. As of now, you are not allowed to do anything - not phone, not text, not tweet, not even take a piss - unless I say so! If not, I will _personally_ make sure that the Secretary of State is not the only corpse in this building! Do you understand?"  
  
He's met by a disgruntled silence.  
  
"Good!" Malcolm takes a few steps then checks his phone and mutters, "Police should be here soon."  
  
"What?" asks Olly. "The police?"  
  
"Yes, the police!" says Malcolm turning to him. "There's a fucker in that office over there with his wrists slit. Who do you expect me to call? Trinny and Susanna? So they can stand around and say, 'Oh no, you might be dead, but you'll look fucking amazing in these jeans'?"  
  
Olly scowls. "I just thought..."  
  
"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter what you thought," says Malcolm. "We're doing this right, and that means we have to call the police. Now, be a good boy and do as you're told when they arrive, hm? No picking your nose or wanking in the corridor." Malcolm checks his watch. "Ok, I've got a press release to write." He looks up. "Terri, you're with me. The rest of you, try not to do anything incredibly stupid while I'm gone, alright?"  
  
***  
  
Fifteen minutes later and Olly is ridiculously bored. He spins around on his chair, twice, and when that doesn't seem fun enough, he spins back around in the opposite direction. "Are we just supposed to sit around here and do nothing?" he complains. "I mean, we're in the middle of a bloody election campaign! We can't just do nothing!"  
  
"You try telling that to Malcolm," says Glenn. "He'll use your testicles for a swingball set if you don't do what he says."  
  
Olly sighs. "This is the worst day... He really did pick the _worst day_ to commit suicide, didn't he? I was meant to meet Joanne for lunch today. Now I don't know when we'll be allowed out, and I can't even text her to let her know I'm going to be late."  
  
Glenn grins. "Still seeing her then?"  
  
Olly rolls his eyes. "No, I'm just meeting her to talk about the finer points of cavity-wall insulation. _Of course_ I'm still seeing her!"  
  
"And your girlfriend still doesn't know?"  
  
"No, she doesn't know."  
  
Glenn leers and Olly sighs louder. "What's your problem?" he asks Glenn. "I won't have you taking the moral high ground with me. It's not my fault that you're just jealous because I'm getting some and your cock's all," Olly waves a hand, "frigid."  
  
Glenn looks affronted. "Frigid?"  
  
"Yes," says Olly, and he's just about to launch into a tirade on the uselessness of Glenn's genitals when he's stopped by the sound of someone clearing their throat. He spins around on his seat to find himself confronted, unnervingly, by a number of policemen with a man in a suit at their helm.  
  
The guy in the suit holds out his badge. "Detective Inspector Lestrade," he says. "Who's in charge here?"  
  
"Ah, that's..." Olly turns, only to find that Malcolm's already running in their direction.  
  
***  
  
Malcolm and DI Lestrade are having a long conversation. Unfortunately, from where Olly and Glenn have been relegated to the stairwell, they can hardly hear a word.  
  
"Do they really need to cordon off the whole floor?" complains Glenn. "Now I can't even sit at my desk. Don't they realise how inconvenient that is? I need my desk!"  
  
Olly stares past the police tape. "That's a lot of police," he says. "Do you know what they're doing down there?"  
  
Glenn leans against the wall and shrugs. "I don't know. Investigating?"  
  
"Well, _of course_ ," says Olly. "But what's there to investigate? It's a suicide. Do the police normally investigate suicides?"  
  
"Maybe," shrugs Glenn. "I don't know; I've not known anyone who's committed suicide before."  
  
"Really?" Olly turns to look at Glenn's hangdog face. "I would have thought they'd be dropping like flies around you."  
  
"Oh, ha ha," says Glenn sarcastically. "So," he sniffs, "what do you think they're investigating?"  
  
Olly shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe they think it's suspicious."  
  
"Suspicious?"  
  
"Yeah, you know," Olly gestures at DI Lestrade, "maybe it's weird for a politician to die after only being in office for two weeks. _And_ during election time."  
  
Glenn snorts. "What, so you think it was a murder on the part of the opposition? Maybe Peter Mannion did it himself! In the kitchen with the candlestick!"  
  
Olly sniggers. "No. No," he says. "I mean, maybe they're looking into how the Secretary of State was _driven_ to suicide."  
  
"Wait." Glenn's eyes widen. "I was nothing but nice to him since he started! If you think I was responsible for... Surely, if anything, you were more mean to..."  
  
"Easy." Olly grins to see Glenn so flustered. "I don't mean _you_. I mean," Olly nods in the direction of Malcolm and Lestrade, "someone who gets people _worked up all the time_."  
  
Glenn frowns. "You mean," he whispers, "Malco..."  
  
"Oh shit!" hisses Olly as Malcolm and Lestrade both look up and start walking. "They're coming this way!"  
  
Frantically Olly and Glenn both scramble away from the police tape and try to look as casual as possible.  
  
"So," Glenn coughs, "did you see the match last night?"  
  
"Oh yeah?" laughs Olly. "Like _you_ ever watch football!"  
  
Glenn scowls, but schools the expression into a smile as Malcolm and Lestrade approach. Malcolm ducks under the police tape, and gives Olly and Glenn a confused look, but he's too busy listening to Lestrade to pay them much attention.  
  
"We'll try not to take too long," says Lestrade.  
  
"That's great." Malcolm smiles. "Just let us know if you need anything, ok?"  
  
Lestrade smiles back. "Will do." Just then, he's stopped by the sound of his phone beeping. Lestrade pulls it out and looks at it. "Ah, good," he says. "He's on his way."  
  
Malcolm frowns. "Who's on his way?"  
  
"Someone who can help," explains Lestrade. "A consultant."  
  
"Consultant?" Malcolm shifts on his feet. "But he's a policeman, though, right?"  
  
Lestrade grimaces. "Not really. But..."  
  
Malcolm's face darkens. "I thought you said that you were only going to have policemen here," he says. "I thought _I_ made myself clear! Do you know how tight to our chests we are having to keep this story? I can't risk letting anyone else into this building. If this thing gets out to the press, we're going to be up shit creek without a fucking paddle! Fuck, we're going to be bathing in the shit creek like it's some kind of new-age spa shit treatment! It'll be fucking _shit_ face packs and _shit_ body scrubs from here on!"  
  
Lestrade is commendably unfazed. "We need this man on the job," he says. "He's very discreet. I guarantee it."  
  
"Discreet? _Discreet_?" Malcolm paces in a furious circle. "He'd _better_ fucking be." And with a glare at Olly and Glenn, like he knows exactly what they've been discussing all this time, Malcolm storms down the stairs.  
  
***  
  
In a taxi, partway through Trafalgar Square, John and Sherlock are busy stuck in traffic.  
  
John sighs, feeling awfully out of the loop, as usual. "So, where are we going?"  
  
"The Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship," says Sherlock, looking out of the window.  
  
"And why?" asks John.  
  
"Lestrade didn't say." Sherlock sniffs. "He just said that they needed me."  
  
"Oh." John turns to look out of his own window, then frowns and turns back to Sherlock. "So why did you agree to it? Don't you normally like to find out if a case is interesting first, before you take it?"  
  
Sherlock turns to John with a smile. "Because if it was dull, they wouldn't be hiding the truth from us." He grins. "No. Lestrade knows me well enough not to bother me with anything boring."  
  
Well, John supposes that that makes sense. He folds his arms and stares out the window. The taxi inches forward a little.  
  
After a while, John says, "You do realise this is government, don't you?"  
  
"What?" asks Sherlock, distracted. "Government? Of course it's government."  
  
"And," John looks at him, "you don't think that your lack of knowledge about politics will be a problem?"  
  
"You think it's a problem?"  
  
"Well, not a such," says John, "but, it's just that, with the election campaign going on and..." he sighs; Sherlock is looking at him like he's an idiot again. John huffs and turns to look out the window. "Forget it. It's nothing."  
  
The taxi inches forward a little more.  
  
***  
  
On the first floor, Terri is busy preening on a sofa. Olly watches her with a mixture of fascination and horror.  
  
"Do you think this jacket makes me look a bit frumpy?" she asks. "It is a bit frumpy, isn't it?"  
  
Olly is about point out that even the finest silk lingerie would make Terri look frumpy, but he's stopped as Robyn walks over with a mug of tea that she hands to Terri.  
  
"Oh, thanks, Robyn." Terri smiles then looks over at Olly. "Do you want one? While Robyn's up."  
  
"Coffee, cheers," Olly says, sitting down.  
  
Terri adopts a look of concern as they both watch Robyn wander back over to the kitchen. "Look at her," says Terri. "Still so gloomy. I told her that her wrinkles will only get worse if she keeps frowning like that."  
  
"You don't think," says Olly, "and this is just a shot in the dark, but don't you think this might have something to do with her finding a man dead in his office at 10:30 this morning?"  
  
Luckily for Olly, Terri wouldn't know sarcasm if it slapped her in the face. She sighs. "Maybe you're right. Poor thing. Do you think we should have a whip round and get her a card?"  
  
Olly laughs out loud. "What card? 'Sorry you're traumatised by the sight of a colleague who's committed suicide'? Would it have a picture of some flowers on it? Or a kitten?"  
  
Terri pouts. "I just thought it would be nice," she says. "Anyway, what do you think? How's my hair? Does it look ok?"  
  
Olly stares. "Why..." but he's stopped by a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Well," says a voice that is unmistakeably Malcolm, "looks like someone's getting lucky tonight, Olly, you cad. Will this be your first time? Do you think you'll be ok, or do you think you might have some... _performance issues_?"  
  
"Fuck off, Malcolm." Olly turns around to give Malcolm the finger. Malcolm gives him a wink in return.  
  
"So," Malcolm perches on the edge of the sofa, "what did I miss? Anything good?"  
  
"Terri's dolling herself up for the policemen," says Olly.  
  
"Oh really?" says Malcolm. "Like a man in uniform, then, do you? Or is it the truncheons you prefer?"  
  
Terri flaps a hand at them. "No no no," she says. "I just wanted to make sure that I look nice."  
  
"Oh," says Malcolm with a smile, "because I thought I heard you talking with Robyn about that Detective Inspector Lestrade."  
  
Terri giggles like a schoolgirl. "He is rather dishy, isn't he?"  
  
Ugh. Ugh. Olly pushes down the urge to vomit and changes the subject as quickly as he can. "So, Malcolm," he says, "when do you think we'll be able to leave the building? It's just that I have this meeting at lunchtime and..."  
  
Malcolm scoffs. "Calm down. Don't get your knickers in a twist; you'll get your bell-end caught in the elastic. Look," he says, leaning forwards with a smile, "you can leave the building once we've sent out a press release."  
  
"And...?" asks Olly. "Have you written the press release yet?"  
  
Malcolm frowns. "Of course not."  
  
"What?" cries Olly, loud enough that several people turn around to look at him. He shrinks back, embarrassed. "But I thought you started writing it ages ago," he hisses.  
  
"Well, I can hardly write it while the police are still investigating, can I?" explains Malcolm.  
  
"Why not?" demands Olly.  
  
"Oh Jesus." Malcolm rolls his eyes. "I know you're not the brightest knob in the box, but at least _try_ to comprehend. Here, Tinky Winky, should I spell it out in words you'll understand?"  
  
Olly is about to protest, but Malcolm stares him down.  
  
"We can't write the press release," says Malcolm, "until we have all the facts about what has happened. And we're not going to have all the facts until the police have finished their investigation."  
  
"But what are they investigating that's taking so long?" asks Olly, still none-the-wiser.  
  
Malcolm runs a hand over his face angrily, but Terri interrupts before he can say anything. "Malcolm's hoping it's a murder," she says helpfully.  
  
"Fuck, Terri." Malcolm grimaces. "Thank _you_ very much."  
  
"A murder!" cries Olly. "Why the fuck do you want it to be a murder?" He tries not to laugh. "You're not seriously trying to pin this on the opposition are you?"  
  
"No," says Malcolm, lowering his voice. "Look, it will be considerably better PR for us if this is a murder rather than a suicide, ok?"  
  
"Nope." Olly shakes his head. "You've lost me."  
  
Malcolm tuts. "Well, that's not hard, is it? Listen, if this is a suicide, then people will start asking _why_ he committed suicide."  
  
"Yes, but if it's a murder," counters Olly, "then people will start asking _who_ the murderer is! What if they think it's someone from this department?"  
  
"Then we jettison that fucker faster than a paedo on his way to a fucking altar-boy convention," says Malcolm. "Let's be realistic here: if this is a murder then the press are going to be baying for blood. And we'll give it to them. I mean, come on, who's going to kill the Secretary of State when he's only been in office for two weeks? It's hardly going to be an assassination, now, is it? No, the murderer is going to be some crazy cunt who's gone off his fucking trolley. So we say, 'Sorry, m'lud, turns out this guy was a fucking lunatic', and we throw him to the wolves."  
  
"But why..." starts Olly.  
  
"Because if this is a _suicide_ and not a murder, then we lose our scapegoat," says Malcolm, eyes flashing. "We lose our get-out clause. You can pin murder on a single person, but you can't do the same with a suicide. And it doesn't matter what the real reason is as to why the Secretary of State killed himself. He could have had a history of depression, or family troubles, or he could have had all his money stolen by some tranny prostitute in Blackpool; none of that matters. Because the press are going to blame _us_."  
  
"Us?"  
  
"Of course 'us'!" cries Malcolm, jabbing a finger at the floor. "We're in the middle of a fucking election campaign! It's stressful! The opposition are waiting to find any little chink in our armour so that they can fucking stick their cock in it, and suicide is a big fucking chink, let me tell you. Big enough that they could fit their fucking fist in! All they need are two words: institutional bullying. Institutional fucking bullying! And it doesn't matter what happens; they will say that the Secretary of State committed suicide because our party _drove_ him to it." Malcolm inhales sharply. "As if we, _we_ , would use institutional bullying?" He balls a hand into a fist. "Fuck me, if anyone dares to accuse _us_ of institutional bullying, I will personally rip out their kidneys through their arsehole and..."  
  
Malcolm's phone rings. With a glare at Olly, as if to suggest that _his_ kidneys are only a second away from admiring a nice view of his anal cavity, Malcolm leaves off the tirade and answers the call. "Hello? What? Lestrade's man is here? Good. Just make sure that..."  
  
Robyn walks back over from the kitchen with Olly's cup of coffee. She still looks as miserable as an alcoholic having her stomach pumped. God. Olly winces. She's not going to start crying again, is she?  
  
But Olly's distracted from that thought by the sound of Malcolm shouting down the phone. "What do you fucking mean, 'both of them'? What 'both of them'? Lestrade told me he had one man. _One man_! So who the fuck is this other person?" Malcolm pauses, looking like he might explode. "A blogger?" He laughs, just on the wrong side of hysterical. "Please tell me you didn't say that you just let a fucking _blogger_ into the building! What part of not letting this story get out to the press do you not understand? Do you want me to fucking tattoo it into your forehead next time? Jesus fucking _Christ_." And with that, Malcolm hangs up and runs out of the room.  
  
Olly sniggers. "What was that all about?"  
  
Terri leans forward, conspiratorially. "I think Malcolm's feeling a bit stressed," she whispers, "what with the suicide and everything."  
  
"No, really?" says Olly, affecting surprise. "I never realised!"  
  
***  
  
Once they're suited up, or at least, once John has suited up and Sherlock has donned some token latex gloves, they're let into the scene of the crime.  
  
John almost can't believe it. The Secretary of State! No wonder Lestrade hadn't said anything to Sherlock earlier. The press are going to have a field day once they get their hands on this story. John doesn't know that much about politics, but he knows enough to remember that the Secretary of State has only been in office for a couple of weeks. What a nightmare.  
  
He walks around the body, which is slumped in a chair, blood on the floor. "Looks like he killed himself," John says. "Slit his wrists."  
  
"Not necessarily," says Sherlock, eyes narrowing. He crouches next to one of the blood stains to inspect it. "Lestrade wouldn't call us out if this were an open and shut suicide."  
  
John frowns. "Then what..."  
  
There's some considerable commotion outside. A lot of shouting.  
  
After a moment, Lestrade pokes his head around the door. He gives them a pained smile. "Could I ask you to come out here for a second?"  
  
John follows Sherlock out into the large, open-plan office, where an oddly-familiar, thin, Scottish man is busy shouting at some policemen. It takes John a moment to place him, but recognition dawns as the man notices them and storms over.  
  
Malcolm Tucker. It's _the_ Malcolm Tucker! John finds himself a little starstruck; he wonders if all the rumours about his temper are true. Going by the volume of his voice, they might be.  
  
"You," says Malcolm Tucker, pocketing his phone. "We need to talk."  
  
Sherlock smiles and holds out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."  
  
Malcolm shakes it. "Malcolm Tucker. Nice to fucking meet you. Now," he points at Sherlock, "are you the blogger?"  
  
Sherlock looks affronted. "No."  
  
Malcolm turns his glare on John.  
  
"Er..." John gives him an embarrassed smile. "John Watson."  
  
"Are _you_ the fucking blogger?"  
  
"I suppose so," says John. "Why, are you..."  
  
Malcolm walks around until they're shoulder to shoulder and puts a hand on John's back in a way that's not friendly at all. "Look," says Malcolm, smiling insincerely, "nobody asked you to come here, so I need to make it clear to you that..."  
  
"John is a doctor," says Sherlock.  
  
Malcolm looks at him.  
  
Sherlock looks straight back. "John is a professionally trained doctor. I need him here to help me assess the body."  
  
Malcolm rounds on Sherlock. "Oh, I see." Malcolm smiles, all teeth and no humour. "You just _happen_ to _need_ a blogger to help you assess the body? Well isn't that fucking _convenient_." He gestures at Lestrade. "Now, as I remember, Detective Inspector Lestrade over there, begged me to let you come here, but I'm beginning to regret..."  
  
"Is it difficult?" says Sherlock. "The Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I hear it can be very uncomfortable."  
  
Malcolm's eyes narrow dangerously. "Who told you that? Who the fuck told you..."  
  
Sherlock smirks at him. "Nobody told me. It's easy enough to see from the way you stand."  
  
Malcolm bares his teeth, voice rising. "What the fuck do you think you're playing at? If you..."  
  
"Do you cry yourself to sleep every night?" asks Sherlock. "Or was this week just particularly stressful?"  
  
Malcolm's face turns white then red then purple. "Get the fuck out." He turns to Lestrade. "These two are leaving this investigation right now!"  
  
"Wait," says Lestrade. "You can't do that. I need them here!"  
  
"No," says Malcolm. " _No_. They are going. _Now_. They are not policemen and you don't _need_ them anywhere."  
  
"But..." protests Lestrade.  
  
"No!" shouts Malcolm. "Fucking, no! They are civilians and I am in charge of this building, not you!"  
  
"Fine." Lestrade sighs, annoyed. "Sherlock, I'm afraid you'll have to go home."  
  
"Jesus. Fuck. Are you mad?" Malcolm glares at Lestrade. "They've _seen_ the Secretary of State doing his fucking impression of a pig in a slaughterhouse! They _cannot_ leave this building. Not until _I_ say so!" He storms towards the corridor. "Take them downstairs!" he orders over his shoulder. "And don't you fucking let them do _anything_!"  
  
***  
  
It seems that Sergeant Donovan can hardly contain her glee as she leads John and Sherlock down into an open-plan office on the first floor. "You can get a cup of tea in here," she says. She nods towards a corner of the room. "Kitchen's over there."  
  
"Er, thanks," says John.  
  
Sherlock says nothing.  
  
They're just about to turn and go, when Donovan stops them. "Oh, er..." she grins. "They told me that I have to take your phones."  
  
John can't quite believe it. "Our phones? They've trapped us in this building and now they want to take our phones?"  
  
"Sorry," she says, not sounding like she means it in the slightest, "those are my orders. They can't trust you not to leak the story."  
  
"Great." John fumbles in his pocket for his phone. "Just great." He pulls out the phone and reluctantly hands it to Donovan.  
  
She looks at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock does nothing.  
  
"Come on, Sherlock," sighs John. "It's not like we have a choice."  
  
Sherlock sniffs, fishes in his pocket, and hands his phone to John. John then hands it to Donovan.  
  
"Right," she says with a bright smile, almost bouncing on the spot, "I'll see you two later."  
  
***  
  
"Hello," says Olly, watching the two strangers from the other side of the room. "Who do you think they are?"  
  
"Who's what?" asks Glenn as he saunters over and sits down on the sofa next to Olly. "What's going on?"  
  
Olly points at the strangers as they hand their phones over. Tall guy, short guy. "Them," he says. "I think one of them might be that blogger that Malcolm was getting all angry about. What do you think, Terri?"  
  
Terri, however, doesn't appear to be listening. "I'm not sure about this blouse," she says, tugging at her collar. "Do you think I should have put on a different blouse this morning?"  
  
Olly's patience is wearing dangerously thin. "Fuck it, Terri," he says. "Do I look like Gok Wan?"  
  
Glenn turns to him with a grin but Olly cuts him off: "No. No. Don't you dare answer that, fucking Bungle."  
  
Glenn sighs instead. "So," he says. "Who's a blogger and what's going on?"  
  
Olly turns his attention back to the two suspects. He gestures at them. "One of them is a blogger," he says. "A few minutes ago, Malcolm got a phonecall telling him that Lestrade's consultant was here to help with the police investigation, but it sounds like the idiots downstairs let in a blogger too." He grins. "I seriously think Malcolm's going to give himself a heart-attack if he tries to keep this story contained any longer."  
  
"God no," says Glenn, relaxing back. "If someone else dies today, we'll never get out of here before 5."  
  
***  
  
Making the best of a bad situation, which he seems to have to do a lot these days, John walks over to the kitchen and begins searching through the cupboards so he can make himself a cup of tea. Sherlock follows him sullenly. In fact, Sherlock hasn't really said anything since they were escorted downstairs. John presumes he's suffering from a dented ego; which, when dealing with Sherlock, is not such an unusual occurrence.  
  
The second cupboard that John opens contains mugs. Well, that's a start.  
  
"It's not just us, you know," John says pulling out two mugs and putting them on the counter. "Have you heard of Malcolm Tucker before?" He looks over his shoulder at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock remains silent.  
  
John sighs. "Well, of course you haven't. But he's in the news sometimes." The fourth cupboard produces sugar and coffee. "From what I've heard, there are rumours that he's like this all the time. Big anger problem. It was in some ex-politician's memoirs or something." John looks in another cupboard, which seems to contain nothing but empty boxes. "Where on Earth is the tea in this place?"  
  
Confused, John looks in all the cupboards, but the only teabags he finds are herbal ones. That can't be right at all.  
  
"There's no tea," he says, pulling out a few jars, "only coffee. Do you want a coffee instead, Sherlock?" But when John turns around, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.  
  
John sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Ok. I'll just stand here talking to myself then, shall I?"  
  
Predictably, no-one replies.  
  
John sighs and turns back around to make himself a coffee anyway. Let Sherlock go where he wants. All John wants right now is a hot drink and a sit down.  
  
***  
  
Glenn is playing with his tie. Olly doesn't think anything of it, until, after a few minutes, Glenn picks it up and grins. "So, Gok," he says to Olly, "reckon this suits me?"  
  
Olly sighs. "Yes, it does, Glenn. The purple goes very well with that scrotal look you've got going on."  
  
Glenn drops the tie and scowls.  
  
***  
  
Mug in hand, John walks out of the kitchen and back into the office. It seems to be full of a few people working, and far more people standing around talking. Unfortunately, aside from all the desks, there doesn't seem to be much in the way of seating. There are a couple of sofas in one corner, which are occupied, but that's about it.  
  
John hesitates, and then decides that he's not going to stand for however long they're going to be kept in here. He makes his way to the sofas. If people complain about him interrupting something, he'll play up his leg a bit; a war wound is useful for some things, after all.  
  
***  
  
"Oh! Oh!" says Terri, looking up. "He's coming this way! He's coming this way!"  
  
"Who?" asks Olly.  
  
"One of the men!" hisses Terri. "You, know, with the blogger!"  
  
"Oh Jesus," groans Glenn. "Do we really have to keep calling him 'the blogger'? It makes him sound like some kind of rubbish superhero."  
  
Olly grins. "What, with internet-based super-powers? Like 'shitty-webcam-photo-taking' and 'starting-racist-arguments'?"  
  
Glenn laughs, but turns it into a cough as the man comes over and sits down.  
  
"Do you, er," the man gestures at the sofa. "Is it ok for me to sit here?"  
  
"Oh, yes, yes," nods Terri.  
  
"Don't mind us," says Glenn.  
  
Olly smiles at the guy. He looks... kind of normal. Unremarkable. Not really the sort of person you'd associate with running a hard-edged, political blog. Maybe the blogger was the other guy, although it is hard to tell with these internet types. After all, most of them are over-weight child groomers if the newspapers are anything to go by.  
  
The guy, coughs, uncomfortable, which may have something to do with the fact that they're all staring at him. Then he smiles, embarrassed, and introduces himself: "John Watson."  
  
"Oh!" says Terri, taking up the task of introducing everyone. "I'm Terri, and this is Olly and Glenn."  
  
"So, are you the blogger then?" asks Glenn.  
  
John looks a little confused by the question. "Er... I do have a blog, yes. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"  
  
"You really don't know?" asks Olly, incredulous. "We can't let the story about the Secretary of State get to the press before we send out the official press release. Malcolm thinks you're going to try to leak it onto the internet as soon as possible."  
  
To his credit, John frowns like he's never even considered the idea. Or maybe he's just a good actor. "I met Malcolm upstairs," John says. "Is he...?" he looks around with a wariness that's common to everyone who's met Malcolm at least once. "It he always like that?"  
  
"What? Angry like a terrier with itchy bollocks?" asks Olly. "Oh yes."  
  
"So, where's your friend?" Glenn asks John.  
  
"What, Sherlock?" says John, looking around. "He's uh... Actually, I don't know."  
  
"There he is." Terri points to a corner of the office, where the other man is bending down and... he can't be. Can he?  
  
Olly stares. "Is he going through the recycling?"  
  
John looks over to where they're pointing and seems to sag in defeat. "Yes," he says. "Yes, he probably is."  
  
Glenn looks concerned. "Is that the normal recycling or the confidential waste?"  
  
Terri cranes her neck and squints. "It's hard to tell from here," she says. "I always said the bins should be different colours."  
  
John's friend seems to pick out a piece of paper, then he unfolds it and begins reading.  
  
"I, uh," Glenn gets up. "I should just go and make sure that..." he runs over, just as John's friend starts delving into the bin again. "Excuse me. Excuse me! Put that down!"  
  
***  
  
Fifteen minutes later and Sherlock and Glenn are still talking. John looks nervously over in their direction. He hopes Sherlock isn't busy upsetting more people; they've already been kicked out of the investigation, and John would rather not have to be kicked off the sofa too.  
  
There's a noise of a phone beeping and suddenly Olly swears and stands up. "I'm going for a walk," he says.  
  
Terri looks up at him. "You can't go outside!"  
  
Olly rolls his eyes. "Of course I'm not going to go outside! I'd rather not have Malcolm treat me like a fucking used jizz-rag, thank you very much." He sticks his hands in his pockets. "I'm just going to go stretch my legs, ok?"  
  
Terri grimaces, presumably at the analogy, and Olly wanders off to the other side of the room. In silence, Terri and John watch him go.  
  
"So," says Terri after a few moments, turning to John, "having a blog must be nice."  
  
John tries not to wince. Do they only ever want to talk about the blog in this place? Is it really such a big deal? He coughs, embarassed. "It's not much, really. I just write up the cases that Sherlock solves."  
  
"Oh." Terri smiles. "So you're a policeman then?" She nods in Sherlock's direction. "The two of you are policemen."  
  
"No, er..." John grimaces. "We're uh... Sherlock just helps the police sometimes, and I..." He coughs. "I'm a doctor."  
  
"Ah," says Terri, sounding a little bit disappointed. "And that's why you're not in uniform."  
  
"Yes," replies John, warily. He has a feeling that he just noticed Terri sidle closer. In an attempt to change the subject, he asks, "Do you know any reason why the Secretary of State might want to commit suicide?"  
  
Terri shrugs. "No," she says. "He could be stressed. I mean, they're all stressed at the moment." She waves her hand in a non-committal way. "You never wear the uniform then?"  
  
"Never," says John. He considers mentioning the army, but decides that it might be a bad idea considering the way Terri seems to have surreptitiously tugged down her blouse to expose more of her cleavage.  
  
She watches him brightly. "Being a doctor must be hard though. You must be very clever."  
  
"I, uh..." John coughs. "Thank you. I... should probably go check on Sherlock. See how he's doing." With an attempt at a smile, John stands up and walks away as fast as he can.  
  
***  
  
John finds Sherlock examining a window frame, with no sign of Glenn anywhere.  
  
"Sherlock," says John, "do you need any help? What are you looking for?"  
  
"Nothing you need worry about, John." Sherlock sighs and turns around. "This place is stifling." He looks out across the office. "I never knew people who worked for the government could be so _tedious_. I mean, Mycroft always said they were, but then, I always thought he was making a fuss." He pauses, and appears to consider John. "You think that woman was making a pass at you, don't you?" he asks with a grin. Then he looks over at Terri and the grin widens. "And you'd be right. Congratulations, John."  
  
"Look," says John, "I just don't want to sit around all the time. Is there something I can do to help?"  
  
Sherlock looks at him. "I need a plan of all the exits to the building. Can you find one for me?"  
  
"Why?" asks John, lowering his voice. "Do you want to find a way to slip past security?"  
  
"If you think it'll be too difficult."  
  
"No," says John. "I didn't say that." He checks over his shoulder to make sure no-one else is listening. "I'll be as quick as I can, ok?"  
  
Sherlock smiles in acknowledgement.  
  
***  
  
Olly glowers out of the window, then looks down at the text message for the fourth time:  
  
 _Where are you?_  
  
Fuck. Joanne will have been waiting for 20 minutes now, and there's nothing Olly can do about it. He thinks about how angry she probably is. He's going to be lucky if she ever lets him see her again, let alone if they ever...  
  
"Excuse me," says someone trying to get to the window. Olly lets him and moves to the next window along.  
  
Fuck Malcolm for keeping them all trapped in here like illegal immigrants in the the back of a shitty old lorry, and fuck the Secretary of State for dying at the _most inconvenient_ time. Did he not even consider how his suicide was going to fuck everything up? He was supposed to be on their side!  
  
Olly groans. They'd never have had this trouble with Nicola. All she used to do when she got stressed was mope around like a fat kid on a diet; looking miserable and scoffing chocolate when she thought no-one was watching. Annoying, yes, but far more reasonable than committing suicide in the middle of a bloody election campaign.  
  
"Excuse me," says the guy again, and Olly moves along to the next window.  
  
With a huff, Olly sits on the windowsill and picks up his phone. He might not be able to say anything to the outside world, but he can at least check what's going on out there. Olly logs into facebook, but instead of a message from Joanne, he finds himself swamped in messages about sodding _farmville_.  
  
Olly looks up, and there, sure enough, Terri is sat on the sofa, tapping happily away on her phone like she doesn't have a care in the whole world.  
  
 _Christ almighty._  
  
Does she not even realise that they're in the middle of a bloody lock down? Can she seriously not go without playing for a few hours? Fuming, Olly wonders how many times he can write 'Fuck off SuBo' on her wall before Malcolm finds out and inserts his phone somewhere unpleasant.  
  
"Excuse me."  
  
"What!" Olly finally snaps. "What are you fucking doing that needs to...?" He looks up to find himself staring at John Watson's friend. "It's _you_!"  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," the guy introduces himself. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get to the window."  
  
Olly folds his arms and refuses to move. "No. No. I don't know who you are, but you can't come waltzing in here, expecting us to..."  
  
Sherlock Holmes stares at him. "You're worried because you've just missed an appointment with the woman you're having an affair with. Understandable, really, so I won't hold your anger against you."  
  
"Hold on," spits Olly, standing up so they're face to face. "How did you know that? Have you been fucking reading my text messages over my shoulder?"  
  
Sherlock frowns. "Of course not. But I think you're right. The probability that she's going to dump you after this incident is extremely high. This is hardly the first time you've stood her up, now, is it?"  
  
Olly nearly chokes on his confusion. "What the fuck? Why should I be standing here, taking relationship advice from someone who spends his time rummaging around in bins?"  
  
"You wouldn't be this nervous if you didn't have cause for concern," says Sherlock, "which means that your prediction about her dumping you is correct. You're not a person who gets agitated for no reason; after all, you're busy playing farmville even though one of your colleagues has just died."  
  
Fucking farmville! "I was not playing farmville you nosey fucking prick!" And with that, Olly stalks away, leaving the guy to his fucking window.  
  
***  
  
"God," Glenn is saying, as Olly wanders back to the sofas, "it was awful. It looked like the Chuckle Brothers were having a twat-off."  
  
"What?" asks Olly. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Glenn thinks you look like John's friend," says Terri.  
  
"It was like a horrible new dimension in which you'd been cloned," explains Glenn.  
  
"Oh, fuck off," says Olly. He doesn't have time for this shit. "Just because we're both tall? I am nothing like that fucking knobjockey weirdo."  
  
"He's weird?" asks Terri. "I mean, John seemed quite nice."  
  
"He's a fucking cock," says Olly. "He was reading my phone over my shoulder!"  
  
Glenn looks smug. "Did he do that thing where he tells you all your secrets?"  
  
"Yeah," says Olly, "but the thing is, Glenn, _everyone_ knows that you go cottaging at the weekends, so that's hardly a secret, is it?"  
  
Glenn ignores the jibe. "Did you catch his name?"  
  
Olly shrugs. "I don't know. Something that made him sound like a upper-class twat."  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," says Glenn.  
  
Terri gasps. "Sherlock _Holmes_?"  
  
"What?" asks Olly, confused. "Do you know him?"  
  
" _Holmes_ ," repeats Glenn.  
  
"Do you mean like Mycroft?" Terri looks like she's about to explode.  
  
"What?" cries Olly. "Can someone explain to me why you're getting so fucking excited?"  
  
Both Glenn and Terri look at him.  
  
"You've not heard of Mycroft?" asks Terri, disbelieving. "You must have done. How long have you worked here?"  
  
"You've seriously not heard of him before?" asks Glenn. " _Mycroft_."  
  
"No!" says Olly. "I don't fucking know what a Mycroft is! It sounds like some kind of shitty computer-game console from the 80s."  
  
"Mycroft _Holmes_ ," explains Glenn impatiently, "is a civil servant. Very high up."  
  
"He's clever," adds Terri. "People say he knows _everything_ that goes on."  
  
"Everything?" scoffs Olly. "Come on."  
  
"It's true," says Glenn. "He has a finger on every button. Apparently even the PM is scared of him. And Malcolm."  
  
"What?" Olly can't believe this for a second. "Malcolm?"  
  
"Mycroft is _strange_ ," says Terri conspiratorially. "Some of the rumours that go around. Apparently he's not even _married_."  
  
"Not married?" Olly rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Terri, this isn't the 1950s!"  
  
"Trust me," says Glenn, "you don't want to get mixed up with Mycroft. And I think this Sherlock Holmes is related to him, which explains why he's such a fucking weirdo."  
  
Olly looks from Glenn to Terri, then from Terri to Glenn. They both seem serious enough. "So they're related then?" Olly asks. "Do you think Malcolm knows they're related?"  
  
"I don't know," says Terri, "but if Malcolm isn't careful and gets on the wrong side of Mycroft, then he could be in line for a jolly good spanking."  
  
"Oh God." Olly feels nausea rising. "Don't say that Terri; it makes us sound like we're in some kind of horrendously boring porno."  
  
***  
  
It's taken half an hour, but John has finally managed to get his hands on a map of all the fire exits in the building. The security guards hadn't wanted him to have it, but he'd threatened them with Health and Safety legislation. Always works a charm.  
  
He finds Sherlock in the stairwell, sitting on the steps and leaning listlessly against the banister.  
  
"Sherlock," says John running up the steps to him, "I found the map that you wanted."  
  
"Ah," says Sherlock, he takes the map when John hands it to him, then tosses it aside. "Good."  
  
"Wait," says John, frowning as he watches the map flutter to the floor. "Aren't you going to look at it?"  
  
"No," replies Sherlock. "It's not of any use to me."  
  
"But I thought..."  
  
"You thought," says Sherlock, "that we were going to make a daring escape." He looks at John. "That's very heroic of you, but I'm not going anywhere until they give me my phone back."  
  
"What?" John clenches his jaw. "Then why did you ask me to get it for you? Do you know how hard it was to..."  
  
"You looked like you needed something to keep you occupied."  
  
"Sherlock," growls John, "don't treat me like a child just because I'm not as smart as you are. I want to help with the investigation!"  
  
Sherlock sighs and gestures at the stairwell. "But clearly," he says, "I'm not investigating anything."  
  
***  
  
"Hello my little Tombliboos," greets Malcolm as he enters the office and makes his way towards the sofas. "Are you having fun in the night garden? I hear the Ninky Nonk's like a right fucking roller-coaster if it goes fast enough. The buffet car's fucking shit though."  
  
"Malcolm," groans Olly, sliding down in his seat, "when are you going to let us go? This is getting ridiculous."  
  
"You don't need to tell _me_ that it's getting fucking ridiculous," says Malcolm, sitting down hard enough that the sofa bounces and Olly is forced to sit up in self defence.  
  
"How goes the investigation?" asks Glenn.  
  
"Fucking terrible," says Malcolm, with a glare for good measure. "The police haven't found anything."  
  
"Maybe," says Terri, "you'll just have to accept that it was a suicide."  
  
"It was not a fucking suicide," says Malcolm. "I am not writing that press release until the police have found that it was _not_ a fucking suicide."  
  
"Oh come on, Malcolm," complains Olly, "you can't keep us in here forever."  
  
"Yes I can," says Malcolm. "I heard about a man once, who got trapped alone up the side of a mountain and had to eat his own foot; now, there are plenty of feet in here, so I'm sure you lot can last for a while."  
  
"What about that detective that Lestrade got in to help?" suggests Terri. "If you let him..."  
  
"No!" shouts Malcolm. "I am not letting that cunt anywhere near the police investigation. I'd rather have Heston Blumenthal baste me with pig's blood and then fuck me in the eye."  
  
"What did he say to you to get you so worked up?" asks Glenn.  
  
"Nothing," counters Malcolm. "He said absolutely fucking noth..." But he's cut off by the sound of his phone ringing. Malcolm pulls the phone out of his pocket, takes one look at it and bristles so hard that it looks like he's going to burst a blood vessel. "It's fucking Mycroft," he mutters.  
  
Olly looks at Glenn, who raises his eyebrows in a way that says, 'I told you so'.  
  
"Fuck," says Malcolm after a moment's hesitation. "I'm going to have to answer it." With an angry sigh, he puts the phone to his ear. " _Yes_?"  
  
As one, Olly, Glenn and Terri lean closer.  
  
"Yes I'm at DoSAC," says Malcolm wearily. "Of course I know that you know about the Secretary of State." He inhales deeply. "Your brother? Well, he's more annoying that Ant and Dec singing fucking Agadoo, so I figured he must be related to you somehow." Malcolm pauses, listening, then suddenly he stands. "No, I am not fucking letting him back in on the investigation! No, I do not care what you're going to threaten me with! He's fucking..." Malcolm paces in a circle. "You reckon he can get me a murder? You're fucking lying. What?" He stands still for a moment, then turns and paces some more. "Ok! Ok! Fine. Fucking fine. But the _blogger_ stays behind." Malcolm stops, face darkening. "Both of them? Why fucking both of them? So one finds the murderer and the other sucks his cock? That's not..." He makes an exasperated noise. "Fine. Fine. Ok. O-fucking-k. No you don't need to explain yourself further. They can both fucking go back on the investigation. But if I get any more trouble out of them, even the tiniest little peep, then I'm going to fucking chop off their balls and send them to you in a jiffy fucking envelope." And with that, Malcolm hangs up the call and stalks off in the direction of the door.  
  
Intrigued, Olly, Glenn and Terri try to follow him as discreetly as they can.  
  
***  
  
John sighs. "So what are we supposed to do?"  
  
Sherlock shrugs. "Wait. There's nothing else we can do."  
  
"And," asks John, full of disbelief, "you're ok with this?"  
  
But Sherlock just looks at him and smiles.  
  
There follows the sound of footsteps and a very familiar voice. "Oi, Jedward, I need a fucking word with you."  
  
John looks up to see Malcolm rounding on them. With a sigh, John stands up. Reluctantly, Sherlock stands up too.  
  
"I've just had a phone call from your brother," says Malcolm, pointing at Sherlock. "You're back on the investigation. Both of you. Now get upstairs and do whatever it is you fucking do."  
  
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "No."  
  
"What?" asks Malcolm with a dangerous glare. "What do you fucking mean, 'no'?"  
  
"I mean," says Sherlock, "that I'm not going back upstairs."  
  
"Wait," says John, interjecting before they get into any more trouble. He turns to Sherlock. "Is this because of Mycroft?"  
  
"No," says Sherlock, condescendingly. "I'm not that petty." He looks at the ceiling. "I'm not going to the crime scene because I don't need to."  
  
"What," starts Malcolm, eyes flashing.  
  
"I already know how the Secretary of State was murdered," clarifies Sherlock.  
  
"Wait. Wait." Malcolm puts a hand to his temple. "You've known he was _murdered_ for _how long_?"  
  
"Oh," says Sherlock with a smirk, "I worked it out as soon as I entered the crime scene. He hardly killed himself with _that_ pattern of blood stains on the floor."  
  
"Fuck," says Malcolm, voice rising. "Fuck! You mean to say that you've known he was murdered _all_ this fucking time and you didn't say a fucking word?"  
  
Sherlock looks at him and grins. "You didn't seem to want my help."  
  
***  
  
From where they're hiding, up on the first floor landing, Olly can't hear much of the conversation, but that doesn't matter; he can hear Malcolm's scream of rage just fine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the excitement at DoSAC, Mycroft decides to pay Malcolm a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/943724.html>

Mycroft is a very busy man. Too busy, some might say. Still, busy or no, there are some occasions when it is necessary to make a _house call_.  
  
Malcolm's office is empty when Mycroft enters; that isn't so unexpected. After a brief glance around the room - newspapers scattered over the computer keyboard, the television set on stand-by - Mycroft pulls out the chair in front of Malcolm's desk and sits down. He won't have to wait long.  
  
Sure enough, two minutes later, Malcolm comes briskly down the corridor and opens the door. He gives a start as soon as he notices his guest. "Oh, Jesus! Fuck. _Mycroft_." And for a minute or two, Malcolm has to lean against the door frame to steady himself.  
  
Mycroft doesn't intend to be a surprise, but he must admit that Malcolm's shock is rather satisfying.  
  
With a glare, Malcolm storms into the room and calls out to his PA, "Oi, Sam, our dickhead infestation's getting worse! I think we're going to have to get the carpet sprayed again."  
  
Mycroft smiles at the jest. "Good afternoon, Malcolm."  
  
Malcolm sneers as he walks behind his desk and sits down. "What the fuck do you want? Am I not even allowed to go to the toilet now without you checking up on me? There are some people that'll pay good money for that, you know."  
  
Mycroft studies the leg of Malcolm's desk. "You know why I'm here, Malcolm."  
  
"What? Because your normal rent-boy's taken too much of a pounding recently? You need somebody else to fuck in the mean time?"  
  
Mycroft winces. "There's no need to be _crude_."  
  
"It's _my_ fucking office!" says Malcolm. "I'll be as crude as I fucking like!" He shifts a pile of newspapers from his desk and drops them onto the floor. "So why are you here? Looking for a new orifice to plunder? Because, let me tell you, I'm being fucking spit-roasted by the press and the opposition already. Any more cocks in me and I'm going to start looking like fucking Radio 1." He snorts. "If you want _me_ , you're going to have to wait your turn."  
  
Mycroft sighs and looks Malcolm in the eye.  
  
"Alright. Fine!" says Malcolm after an uncomfortable silence. He throws his hands in the air. "You want to talk about Mr-fucking-'I had to go die and fuck everybody's week up'? Let's talk about him." Malcolm stabs the desk with his finger. "One: the murderer is being held by the police; she's out of our fucking hands. Two: the security procedures at DoSAC are being _thoroughly_ investigated, so that this shit _never_ happens again. And three: I have had to juggle so many journalists with this story that I've gotten fucking RSI in my fucking _phone_."  
  
"I see." Mycroft smiles. "Good. It's _good_ to hear that you're coping." He brushes a speck of dust from his knee. "I dread to think what would have happened if the police hadn't been able to track down the murderer. Horrible business; everyone thinking it was a suicide. And dire for _you_ , I imagine."  
  
Malcolm gives him a tight smile in response.  
  
"You must be very pleased," says Mycroft, "that everything was _straightened out_."  
  
Malcolm huffs impatiently. "What do you fucking want?"  
  
"I am, of course," says Mycroft with a meaningful look, "talking about my brother."  
  
"Fuck. So what?" Malcolm folds his arms. "You want me to fucking say 'thank you'? You want me to throw a fucking parade in his honour?" He leans forward. "Nepotism is a pretty fucking nasty thing, you know. And it's just the sort of corrupt attitude that this government is trying to get rid of."  
  
"Yes, well." Mycroft gives him a humourless smile. "I think your government has had more than _enough_ time to nip all that corruption in the bud, don't you?"  
  
Malcolm snarls, suddenly angry. "What the fuck do you think you're getting at?"  
  
Mycroft waves a hand flippantly. "Now now, Malcolm. You know I don't care for elections and all your petty party politics."  
  
Malcolm goes to retort, but Mycroft stops him with a look. "While I can see your concern with nepotism," says Mycroft, "I'm sure we both know that there is not _anyone else_ who would have been able to discover exactly how the Secretary of State died. My brother _is_ one-of-a-kind."  
  
"You're fucking telling me," Malcolm mutters.  
  
"And while I have no doubt that you are _very_ grateful," continues Mycroft, "I'm sure you know that it is not your _gratitude_ towards my brother that I wish to speak to you about today."  
  
Malcolm glares.  
  
Calmly, Mycroft holds his gaze.  
  
After a long moment, Malcolm huffs and spits out: "What?"  
  
Mycroft looks him in the eye. "You punched him, Malcolm."  
  
Malcolm makes an exasperated noise. "And I didn't hit him! Bastard's got faster reflexes than a fucking fat man trying to get the last pasty in Greggs. Must have started young. Did you beat him as a child? I can see why you would."  
  
Mycroft ignores the last comment and studies the tip of his shoe. "No, indeed," he says. "My brother was _not_ the one you hit."  
  
Malcolm sighs angrily.  
  
"The good Dr Watson has been rather ill-used in this instance, don't you think?" asks Mycroft.  
  
"It was an accident!" cries Malcolm, almost rising from his chair. "I didn't mean to fucking hit him, and he _knows_ that. I had a conversation with him afterwards and he understands that it was _an accident_."  
  
Mycroft raises his eyebrows.  
  
"Oh, fuck. What?" Malcolm runs a hand over his face. "You want me to fucking apologise? Am I supposed to send him a bunch of flowers now, and a teddy bear that says 'I'm fucking sorry I punched you' on it?"  
  
"Well." Mycroft smiles. "It would only be polite."  
  
"Fuck off." Malcolm throws himself back in his chair and folds his arms. "This isn't Tom Brown's fucking School Days any more, you know. It might be hard for you to understand, but this is not public school and I am not your little fucking boy-toy. I don't care how much fucking pubescent sexual tension you are suffering from; I am not going to toss you off at the back of the classroom."  
  
Mycroft adjusts his cuffs. "Did you see those latest crime statistics, Malcolm?" he asks. "I thought there was something rather _odd_ about them. Almost seems like they've been tampered with." He looks up with an air of concern. "What do you think?"  
  
Malcolm bares his teeth. "You wouldn't," he snarls. "You wouldn't fucking _dare_. Those statistics have been out for _weeks_. If there was a problem with them, _which there is not_ , it would have been fucking dealt with by now."  
  
"Of course," says Mycroft. "But I can't help feeling that they might benefit from a little investigation. I'm sure you would agree. After all, we both know you're a stickler for _accuracy_." He checks his watch. "I was thinking I might have a word with the National Audit Office."  
  
Malcolm glares, silenced, but only for a few seconds. "You have got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters.  
  
"Oh no." Mycroft looks at him with a smile. "You know I never joke, Malcolm."  
  
***  
  
As soon as she hears the front door bang shut, Mrs Hudson rushes out into the hall. She's greeted by John; just who she's been waiting for, and doesn't he still look awful? His eye is swollen and blue and looks terribly painful.  
  
"Oh, look at that," she tuts. "Does it still hurt, dear?"  
  
John smiles as he takes off his coat. "It's fine, Mrs Hudson. Really." Always so _brave_.  
  
It's then that Mrs Hudson remembers why she's been waiting for John to return. "Oh!" she gasps. "Look at me. I'd forget my own head if it wasn't screwed on." She gives John an excited smile. "A package arrived for you this morning, dear. It's from a florist!"  
  
"A florist?" asks John, and he follows Mrs Hudson into her flat, where the package has been waiting, unopened, all day.  
  
"Were you expecting flowers?" Mrs Hudson asks, as John picks up the large cardboard box and sets it on the coffee table.  
  
John frowns. "No," he says. "Not at all."  
  
"Only," continues Mrs Hudson, "I thought they might be from that _lady-friend_ of yours."  
  
John frowns some more, but doesn't contradict her, which means the Mrs Hudson could be right on the money this time. She watches eagerly as John opens up the box and lifts out a basket of flowers. And aren't they pretty? All orange and pink and cheerful. Not necessarily that romantic, as flowers go, but they'll certainly brighten that kitchen upstairs, which is always too gloomy for Mrs Hudson's liking.  
  
It's then that John turns the basket around, revealing a small, brown teddy bear, which is nestled amongst the leaves. In its paws, it's holding a banner that says, 'I'm sorry'.  
  
Mrs Hudson gasps. So it's not from John's lady-friend? She looks at John. "Could it...? Do you think it's from that man who punched you?"  
  
John seems more confused than ever, bless him. "I don't know," he says. "He doesn't seem like the type of person to send flowers."  
  
Mrs Hudson tuts impatiently. "Where's the card? There must be a card somewhere to tell you who they're from."  
  
After a moment of fumbling, John finds the card at the bottom of the box. As he opens it, Mrs Hudson, who can't wait any longer, reads it over his shoulder: "John Watson, I'm sorry I punched you. And I'm even more sorry I didn't punch that," she coughs over an expletive, "friend of yours who's more annoying than a... Oh... _Oh_... and if I ever see him again, I'm going to... _Oh my_." Try as she might, Mrs Hudson can't bear to read any more. To imagine that someone could use language like that in front of a teddy bear!  
  
"Oh dear," she tuts. "Sounds like Sherlock's been making friends again." She looks nervously at John. "You're not going to show that message to Sherlock are you?"  
  
"God no," says John, staring at the card. "You know how unbearable he is when he gets big-headed."


End file.
